Centipede

Centipede

The centipede was happy, quite,

Until a toad, in fun,

Said, “Pray, which leg goes after which?”

Which raised her mind to such a pitch

She lay distracted in a ditch considering how to run.

Around age 4, I memorized this poem (Katherine Craster, 19th c.).  The first time I recited it to my mom, she felt sorry for the centipede.  Poor little thing, blindsided by the spiteful toad.   I still remember it today because I must have quoted it to her a hundred times.   I’d say it when I was on the verge of getting in trouble or when I wanted something very badly because it never failed to make her smile.  It got to the point where I would only have to say the first line and she’d hold up her hand and shake her head:  “Ok, ok.”

Turns out there’s actually something called the centipede syndrome, where some automatic activity gets disrupted by being conscious of it, like when that word you’ve spelled a hundred times suddenly looks weird–no, that can’t be right, is it?  Or all of a sudden you’re tripped up on a song you’ve played on the piano countless times.   Wait–is that the right note?    Or a skill you could do blindfolded–swing a golf club, braid your child’s hair, make that bread recipe–causes you to stumble, question, doubt.

At this point in life, it’s dawning on me why my mother may have felt such affinity for the centipede.  (It’s really a creepy sort of insect–all those legs!)  Despite watching her do the same, I’ve wasted a large chunk of time second guessing myself.   Maybe this is true for all but the most self-assured and self-confident of us.  Our looks, our skills, our passions–who we are–is questioned and criticized at every turn by toads in our lives.  Even very well-meaning toads, who may just be trying to make a suggestion.

For me, it started in elementary school, when some tall popular girl looked over at my paper and with a sniff asked, “Why do you make your ‘S‘s’ like that?”  Like what?  Is there something wrong with my cursive S?   Is it deformed, defective, lame?  It didn’t occur to me to wonder what made her think her S was somehow better than mine.  I just assumed it must be and–here’s the kicker–changed my handwriting.

Now if this had been some character flaw that a wise and gentle teacher had pointed out to me, that would not have been such a bad thing.  Some criticism is deserved and necessary for maturing and growing.  But not all criticism.  Many times, I’ve had pointed out to me that I’m too quick to get angry, too impatient, too (gasp!) bossy.  All true.  But my S was just fine.

So many times I was tooling along blissfully like the centipede, oblivious that what I was wearing, how I cut my hair, how much I weighed, which boy I liked, what books I read (or didn’t), what music I liked (or didn’t), what I was good at (or wasn’t), what college I attended, what my major was, who my friends were, what I believed, how I raised my kids, where I lived, what I drove…was somehow wrong, or inadequate, or less-than.   Then a toad would hop by, make a passing comment, and let the second guessing begin!

My mother would actually get debilitating migraines, working herself into being sick over something she’d said (or hadn’t) or some way she was somehow supposedly not good enough for the company she’d kept.   Me?  I twisted my hair.  Made great, hopeless, tangled knots that could sometimes only be cut out.   She was a daughter who yearned to read and learn in a time when she was told she was only good enough to be a secretary, so college would be out of the question.   I was a daughter who was told I could do and be anything, but I was paralyzed by doubt, my S‘s never quite up to par.

For awhile, we each tried to change who we were, which resulted, as it always does, in disaster–migraines and knotted hair.  A few years after my brother was born, while my father was on a tour of duty, my mother finally enrolled in some college classes–literature and writing.  Probably not the best timing, with five kids underfoot and an absentee husband, but she’d squashed a toad or two under her heel, and I’d never seen her happier.

The older I get, the less I pay attention to the toad voices.  The more I realize that their croaking doesn’t matter, isn’t even true most of the time.   Instead of spending time at the pond, listening to their chorus, I tend to walk away once they start up these days.   I don’t have time for that anymore.   This outfit?  It’s comfortable.  This hair?  Curls will just have to do.  That book/music/movie I like?  It says something to me and that’s enough.  And my passions?  I’m sorry if they’re not yours, but they give me joy and purpose.  My centipede legs keep on trucking just they way they’re meant to.

Occasionally, a “toad” will still trip me up, causing me to question, but I’m getting into enough of a rhythm now that I mostly hear the croak as a distant echo and no longer let it get stuck in my head like a song you can’t get rid of.   Give me another decade or so and I hope I’ll be doing the centipede can-can, kicking my hundred legs like the Rockette’s.  Meddling toads begone!  I don’t believe in you.